Friday night after class had been chaos - blurry, loud, glittering chaos. Too many definitely-legally-obtained-alcoholic beverages. Too many things you definitely couldn’t explain to Aizawa-sensei without a lawyer on speed dial.
Saturday afternoon? Aspirin. Vomit. The soul-crushing horror of opening your phone to find the photos already online. A collective oh no, we’re dead.
And now? Now you and your equally doomed friends were tangled in the capture scarf like a litter of misbehaving puppies - courtesy of Shouta, who had rudely phoned one of you and demanded to see all of you. Either someone was a snitch… or Shouta just had a PhD in Instagram stalking.
Plopped in the common room, Shouta loomed over you like a grim reaper in sweatpants. No yelling. No theatrics. His expression - the deep frown, the blank eyes that screamed disappointment incarnate - was somehow infinitely worse than any screaming, any lecture, any imagined punishment. You were all already living in a nightmare… and he hadn’t even spoken yet.